


The Tricks of a Bagnard

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Cavity Search, Chains, Enemas, Face Slapping, Javert Lives, M/M, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: “Sleep,” Javert said, and naked as he was, Valjean curled up on the wooden planks in front of Javert's bed without protest, light-headed and dizzy, too exhausted now to fear what the morning might bring.





	The Tricks of a Bagnard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwelveLeagues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/gifts).



Valjean did not dare to look at the window when he followed Javert into his apartment.

Valjean was exhausted, his mind numb from weariness. He was still covered in filth from his journey through the sewers. At any other time, he would have been terrified to find himself here—in Javert's rooms, at last a prisoner once more.

Now, there was something almost freeing about finding himself in Javert's power. It no longer mattered what he wanted or feared. He knew what was to come. And it would be Javert leading him along that road. No further thought or action was required of him.

That was all over now.

“Look at me,” Javert said.

Valjean blinked tiredly, but obediently raised his head.

Javert was looking down at him, his brows drawn together. There was something pleased in his expression. Despite his own weariness, there was something fierce and sharp in those eyes even now.

Valjean made himself bear their weight until Javert at last nodded.

“Strip,” Javert said.

Valjean swallowed, but weariness dulled even his shame as he silently removed the sewer-stained garments from his body. Javert watched without saying a word.

Once Valjean was naked, without defense from penetrating eyes that surely recalled the many years he had spent similarly defenseless in chains, Javert looked him up and down.

“Don't move,” he said.

A moment later, he left the room.

Valjean stared at the wall, his mind pleasantly blank. He was too tired even to fear. And what was there to fear now for him when the worst had already come to pass?

A minute later, Javert returned. A cloth was thrust into Valjean’s hand together with a ball of soap, a pitcher of water poured into a washbasin next to him.

Mechanically, Valjean began to wash. The water was cold and the soap coarse, but that, too, brought back memories of those nineteen years long ago.

Javert's eyes were still on him. Had he not been so tired, Valjean might have felt shame or terror at the way those dark, impenetrable eyes watched his every move. Instead, he bent his neck in submission to the heavy weight of Javert's gaze, rubbing the coarse soap over tired muscles covered in grime and mud.

When he ran the soap between his legs, Javert's eyes were on him, too, and a part of Valjean thought he understood then why he was here.

He offered no protest. He did not even blush. He was too tired for shame, and too aware of what was to come for shyness.

When Valjean was done, he half turned towards Javert, his hands hanging by his side, not covering himself.

“No,” Javert said, his voice a little impatient. He took the soap from Valjean's hand. “Turn. Against the wall.”

At Javert's touch, Valjean's legs spread. Distantly, he could hear the sound of his own breathing.

Javert was wetting the soap, working up a lather. Then his hands were between Valjean's legs, exploring with the sureness of a man who had executed the same motions a hundred times.

Valjean’s body, too, remembered what was to come.

Valjean leaned forward against the wall, his breathing more labored although this time, it was no public spectacle. And between him and Javert, who had always know just what he was, surely it was no matter of shame.

Then the ball of soap was worked along his crease, slick and wet, and a moment later, Javert's fingers found his opening.

Valjean’s breath escaped his lungs as Javert penetrated him. It had been a long time. Even so, it seemed his body had not forgotten what it had once been accustomed to, giving way to the long digits slick with soap that slid into his anus with confidence.

There were no chains binding him, for once. Still Valjean remained in his position against the walls, his pulse thundering in his ears as he found himself returned to his years in chains, the routine examination of the chaingang a spectacle for anyone who cared to watch.

Impatiently, Javert used his other hand to pry Valjean’s cheeks further apart. Then a third digit was added.

The coarse soap burned inside his hole. It had not been accustomed to such stretch in ten years, but there was something familiar to the penetration. Valjean could only yield and tremble as Javert breached the secret, shameful places of his body with long experience and impatience.

“There,” Javert muttered at last in satisfaction. The long, relentless fingers penetrated deeper, the burn of the soap inside Valjean making him gasp. Then Javert’s fingers clenched and withdrew, and Valjean suddenly found himself empty, his legs trembling as the aching muscle clenched in reflex.

“Just as I thought,” Javert murmured. He did not address Valjean; even so, there was a quiet satisfaction in his voice. Valjean did not have to turn around to know what Javert was examining.

“Always a bagnard, Jean Valjean.”

A moment later, Valjean heard the sound of his hollow coin being placed into a bowl behind them.

Then there was silence, only disturbed by the sounds of Javert pouring more water and working up another lather. Valjean remained facing the wall, his exhausted body aching faintly.

Javert did not speak. There was no warning for what was to come, but even so, a part of Valjean knew.

“Bend over the bed.”

His legs felt weak, but Valjean obeyed even that command. He pressed his face into the blanket of warm wool that covered Javert's bed. The wool was thick and warm, although worn in places. It smelled like Javert: there was a hint of masculine sweat, snuff and the coarse soap he used.

Then Javert stepped behind him. Again a hand spread Valjean’s cheeks, exposing him to Javert. Valjean squeezed his eyes shut.

Then something penetrated him again, colder than a finger. Valjean concentrated on the dark behind his eyelids, breathing in.

“Still the tricks of a bagnard.” Javert's voice sounded strange. He did not seem angry or triumphant. Instead, he sounded nearly distracted, his voice calm, as though he was mechanically doing an errant while his mind was occupied by a different puzzle.

“But we'll soon cure you of that. You know the punishment for such infractions.”

It was not a question, and the cold, soapy water that began to fill his insides at Javert's words needed no further explanations. That, too, was familiar, Valjean’s bowels cramping around the harsh soap.

More water poured into him. He kept breathing deeply, arching his back to alleviate the cramping.

Javert did not touch him, although he was on display. One of Javert's hands kept his cheeks spread, but even though Valjean's aching hole kept spasming around the nozzle, the water kept running into him, as cold and relentless as Javert, until he felt unbearably full, a low, pained groan escaping him as none of the writhing would ease the pressure.

At the sound, Javert’s hand came around him to feel his stomach, pressing against him as if to test whether he had had enough. The pressure forced another groan from him, but Javert did not react. Instead, with his hand in place, Javert allowed the water to flow into him for another minute until there were tears in Valjean's eyes and he had to press his face into Javert's blanket in mute agony.

Then, at last, Javert stopped. The nozzle was removed.

And with his face pressed into Javert's bed, his body completely naked and his stomach heavy and cramping around the cold, soapy water, Valjean kept kneeling on Javert’s floor.

Javert did not touch him.

At first, there was the sound of a chair scraping across the wooden floor. Then, a short while later, Valjean heard the sounds of a man shifting papers.

Later, Javert rose, pacing and muttering something under his breath that Valjean could not make out.

It was hard to concentrate on anything but the cramping of his bowels. Even now, the incredible pressure inside him had his eyes wet with shame as he pressed his face into Javert's bed.

Sweat dripped down his back. He groaned softly as he arched his back again. So many years had passed that once, his past seemed but a bad dream. Now, with terrifying speed, Valjean found himself transported back to that last time he had been sent to the bagne, no more than a number and a few lines in a ledger, his body on display for strangers who had gathered and laughed as he was so shamefully examined in the most intimate ways.

Again he heard the sound of Javert's boots on the floor. They stepped next to him.

Then Javert's hand was in his hair. He did not grip painfully tight, but neither was his touch gentle as he forced Valjean to raise his tear-wet face and meet his eyes, demanding obedience with the confidence of a man who knew that was his due. And what was there left now to Valjean but to give in?

“There. Was that enough?”

Valjean did not dare to speak. In any case, the question was not meant for him. Javert's eyes ran over his face, then his tense body. The water within him was as heavy as if Javert had filled him with stones, so that holding it all in took so much effort his body was trembling and covered in sweat.

For a long moment, Javert studied him. Then Valjean was released—and at last given leave to expel the water.

After the agony of keeping it in for so long, that too left him pale and trembling. He washed himself with shaking hands, all the while aware of Javert's eyes. 

When he was finished, Javert nodded to his clothes. Hastily, gratefully, Valjean drew them on again. He felt weak and incredibly empty, his knees shaking as he was finally made to face Javert once more.

Javert still did not speak. Instead, his hand grabbed Valjean’s chin, large fingers wrapping around his face to hold him in an iron grip as Javert stared into his eyes. Then his other hand reached out for something on the washstand next to them. Valjean heard the sound of water.

A moment later, Javert's fingers were in his mouth, and tears rose to Valjean's eyes at the sharp taste of soap. Javert's fingers moved in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue.

“You'll yet learn honesty, Jean Valjean.”

Javert's fingers thrust in and out of his mouth, two times, three times. Valjean blinked against the burning in his eyes, feeling strangely helpless and ashamed, though after the agony of the past hour on his knees, this should have been easy to bear.

“You won't lie to me again.”

His eyes watering, Valjean weakly shook his head in obedient assent.

And then, at last, Javert's fingers retreated. Instead, a chain was fetched, and Valjean found himself shackled to one foot of Javert's bed.

“Sleep,” Javert said, and naked as he was, Valjean curled up on the wooden planks in front of Javert's bed without protest, light-headed and dizzy, too exhausted now to fear what the morning might bring.

He did not wake when Javert went to bed. When Valjean woke, the light of the morning sun filled Javert's bedchamber. The wooden planks beneath him were hard. His body was old now, and he had grown accustomed to the years of sleeping on a soft mattress.

Despair threatened to rise up in him as he saw what remained of his days play out like this: the return to the bagne, if the king were to spare his life again; the great shame of the many eyes on him; the chains and the pain.

Then he heard the bed creak as Javert rose.

Javert seemed nearly taken aback to find him naked on his floor, chained to his bed. For a long moment, Javert stared at him.

Javert, too, was naked. Valjean had been too exhausted to see Javert retire to bed during the past night, but now, as Javert knelt down by his side and took his chin in a firm grip once more, Valjean saw the shaft between Javert’s own legs, firm with blood, stretching towards him without shame.

Javert did not acknowledge it, as if he was used to waking to such an occurrence. And indeed, he might have been; Javert was several years younger than Valjean, and although Valjean had never seen Javert pursue any sort of pleasure, there had always been a rough, terrifying masculinity to the man.

Now, at last, Javert's penchant to grasp and subdue took on a darker hue, and Valjean's heart sped up in his chest as he found himself a captive to Javert's penetrating gaze.

A long minute passed. Valjean could not say what Javert could possibly be thinking. After the events of the past night, he had thought that in the morning, Javert would bring him to the station-house, from where he would be transported to a jail.

Instead, Javert's brow furrowed. His fingers sought out Valjean's mouth again. Then they pressed inside, and Valjean mutely submitted to that exploration, Javert's large, rough fingers sliding over his tongue, pressing it down.

He had half expected the punishing taste of soap again. Instead, Javert tasted of warm skin and sweat and something strangely, distinctly bitter and earthy. Javert’s fingers had not been wet. Even so, Valjean had slept through the night. Perhaps Javert had found release by his own hand when he had retired.

Valjean breathed through his nose, mutely meeting Javert's gaze as he suffered the fingers in his mouth as meek as though his wrists were already in chains.

Then Javert withdrew his fingers and stood. He washed, then dressed himself. At last, he unchained Valjean.

“Dress,” Javert said.

Was he to be taken to the station-house now?

Valjean pulled on his clothes without protest, ignoring the ache of his body after the night on Javert's floor. There were more nights on wooden planks in wait for him.

As he turned to face Javert once more, awaiting his orders, his face fell onto a small bowl on Javert's desk. There, he saw the familiar, hollow sou, which Javert's intimate search had uncovered the night before.

Valjean had been too weary for shame then; now, inexplicably, he blushed, and Javert, who must have noticed his look, laughed hoarsely.

“Yes,” Javert murmured, moving close enough so that Valjean could feel the heat of his breath against his face. “It's true. It will take a while to break you of the tricks of the galley-slave. But surely it can be done.”

Confused, Valjean remained motionless, his eyes lowered. Javert's words did not make much sense; even so, Valjean’s eyes were drawn to the tell-tale bulge in Javert's trousers.

“Do you not feel better now?” Javert demanded. His hand grasped Valjean’s face again, his fingers relentless, but not cruel. “Cleansed of the sins of the galley-slave? At least a little.”

Mutely, confused, Valjean found himself nodding.

After the shame and the agony of the past night, he did feel better. Cleaner. So it had always been when he had made the right choice, the hard choice, giving himself over to torment to save his soul from the path of darkness.

Javert chuckled, then he moved away. Unsettled for some reason he could not understand, Valjean followed him with his eyes. He had been too weary yesterday, and too fearful today, but now, at last, he realized that there seemed to have been a strange change.

The Javert he had known would have already had him in chains awaiting his fate in the station-house. And yet Javert had not once mentioned the future they both knew awaited Valjean.

“Yes,” Javert muttered as he stared out of the window, his back to Valjean. “Yes, I'll teach you honesty yet.”

Then he turned, and Valjean found himself trembling again as Javert stared at him with dark, unreadable eyes.

“Go,” Javert said. “Return in three days.”

“Javert,” Valjean ventured at last, “will you not—”

The back of Javert's hand made his head snap to the side.

Shocked, Valjean found his heart pounding as he stared at Javert.

“It is Inspector Javert to you,” Javert said evenly. “That, too, I shall teach you. You will not address me unless I have asked you a question.”

His cheek still smarting, Valjean inclined his head in surrender. His eyes stung, although the slap had not been painful.

Valjean had known pain. He had known the heavy fall of the cudgel onto his shoulders, the anger of the guards taken out on his flesh.

Still, Javert had not been angry. He had backhanded him almost casually—not the way a guard might beat a galley-slave.

Valjean could not say why that would be. It was hard to make sense of Javert. Valjean had not eaten in days, and despite the rest he had been granted, perhaps his mind was now playing tricks on him.

“You will return in three days,” Javert said. “Did you not once demand that of me? Three days to save that woman's child?”

“Yes, Inspector,” Valjean said hoarsely.

Javert laughed again, his eyes dark beneath his imperious brows. “There it is then. You'll return in three days, and I shall see whether you have learned honesty then. Or whether you require another lesson.”

Valjean swallowed, his mouth dry as he thought of Javert's hands on him, in him, the relentless pressure of the water.

The earthy taste of Javert's seed in his mouth.

He bent his head, his neck accepting that new burden placed upon him, although another shiver ran through him.

“Three days, Inspector.”

All the way to the Rue de l'Homme Armé, he kept tasting the bitterness of Javert in his mouth.


End file.
